


A Fool and His Money

by thelonebamf



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Emetophobia, Friends to Lovers, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Magical Illness, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Nausea, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:54:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27924850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelonebamf/pseuds/thelonebamf
Summary: These days, Wade still can't believe that he and Peter are friends. Good friends. The kind of friends who know each other's secret identities, even! And sure, maybe he's started to spit up handfuls of cold, hard cash every time he thinks about the wall-crawler, but he's not going to let a little thing like that get in the way of their epic bromance. Besides, he can't think of a better use for his newfound wealth than to treat his baby boy right.So what if it kills him?
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 54





	A Fool and His Money

It’d started out as a single bloody coin. 

Measly, really. Nothing to be afraid of. Stranger things had certainly happened in the past two weeks, and it wasn’t like Wade hadn’t hacked things up before. It was practically how his body operated: bullet goes in, bullet gets pushed out into gastrointestinal tract via healing factor, gastrointestinal tract is not a fan and rejects it, bullet comes out in a grotesque vomit-potpourri along with stale, half-congealed bodily fluids. Simple process, and it wasn’t just with bullets. Once, he spat up what looked like the bellend of a hammer, and the last time he checked, neither he (nor the umpteen or so other personalities rattling around in his skull) had ever gained a craving for industrial tools. Sometimes things just...  _ came out _ of Wade’s body, no rhyme or reason, and he’d learned to live with that. It was a one-off thing, and it wasn’t like he’d toss out a free coin. 

But then it happened again, with two coins.

And again, with three.

And then he started choking up bills, too. Real, authentic, perfectly-minted bills. Once he’d wrung the various other forms of spittle and unsanitary liquids out of them, it was like they’d come fresh from the bank. Just to test the legitimacy, he’d even gone ahead and bought himself a stupid amount of Skittles at a bodega- and still, somehow, everything checked out. The cashier barely even looked at him, much less the regurgitated cash. 

That night, Wade had gone home thinking, and continued to do so upon arrival. As a means to keep on track, he granted himself a Skittle every time he had a coherent addition to the analysis. Two hours later and with no Skittles left, Wade was left with a pattern.

_ Spidey. _

Or, as he now knew him: Peter Parker. Great ass, intelligence beyond compare, stupid good looks,  _ gorgeous _ ass, incredibly altruistic and just an amazing person all around that made Wade wonder what he ever did to deserve him tolerating his idiot ass, absolutely  _ effervescent _ ass.

Every time he came around- no- every time he  _ left _ , Wade was hit with a spell of nausea and had to find the nearest secluded spot to yak. Without fail, within the contents of his sickness was a fat stack of cash. Bloodied cash, of course, roused with an incredible amount of pain from the depths of his esophagus, but cash nonetheless! 

Maybe it was another one of those freaky love spells; Wade didn’t care to find out. What he  _ did _ care about was treating Peter, in some way or another, for inflicting Wade with this inadvertent money-illness. The guy deserved it, after all- he was dirt poor and desperately needed a night out, even if it was at some tacky restaurant that had meatloaf as their specialty dish. He wouldn’t be spewing up money if it weren’t for Peter (several tests had been run, all of them positive), and Wade himself was a pretty annoying guy- he pretty much owed it to Peter to take him somewhere nice. And maybe there were some more selfish reasons, too, for Wade, because  _ lovelovelove _ and  _ crushcrushcrush _ . But he wouldn’t acknowledge those, not in a million years. It’d just ruin the thing they had going- it was too earnest, and Wade was too… Wade. So, thusly, he brought his phone out one deep, silent night (aside from the guy across the street scream-crying about how Parmesan is pronounced, and the busying traffic, and the puttering of his air conditioner), and sent Peter that golden text. 

_ You wanna go out to eat somewhere? I got coupons.  _

He guessed that was-  _ kind of _ true?

Peter's phone didn't ring much. Not that he wasn't a busy guy, or even that people weren't looking for him on a regular basis. It was just that his schedule was mostly filled with late night patrols as New York's most loved (and hated) costumed vigilante, and his dealings with people tended to be face to face. Or fist to face, as the case may be. He got emails from his aunt and the office more often than not, (god, Jameson had demanded to know where he could send him a fax that one time, like it was still 1987) and as the years went by it seemed like he and MJ had less and less to talk about. 

Well, no. They had plenty to talk about but it didn't seem like that was happening any time soon so... 

Yeah. Usually his phone didn't make a peep.

He kept it around  _ anyway, _ of course. You never knew when you'd have an emergency, and May was always swearing she'd figure out this whole texting thing eventually. He even gave Wade his number, with strict instructions to use it only for "work", although that particular restriction had loosened up over the last several months. 

It was actually Peter who had texted him out of the blue for the first time. There wasn't any danger, hell, Peter wasn't even wearing the suit. He'd just happened to be in the park and saw three pigeons making short work of an abandoned chalupa and immediately thought,  _ I need to tell Wade about this. _ He didn't bother worrying about when he'd started thinking of the mercenary as  _ Wade, _ but it was definitely around the time he confessed to scaling back on the number of hits he was taking because working with Spidey had "inspired him to be a better person". Or something. 

Of course, once Peter sent the street snap, it was like the floodgates had opened. Wade didn't think twice (or even once, it would seem) about sending him texts, memes, or just random strings of emojis Peter was left to decipher. And it was... kind of nice, feeling that faint buzz in his back pocket, and knowing it meant someone was thinking about him. This was the first time Wade had sent him an invitation just to "hang out", though, and Peter had to think about it for a few minutes. There wasn't any harm, probably. He'd trusted Wade with his face, his name, too many details about his sad life, and despite having every opportunity, Deadpool hadn't ever taken advantage of any of it. Peter hadn't had so much as a flicker of his spider-sense when it came to trusting the other man. So maybe it was okay for them to meet out of their suits for a meal. Why not? 

_ Oh yeah? Somewhere good, I hope. _

Wade hadn’t actually been expecting a response- or at least not so soon. He knew his texts were more or less unimportant (even if he himself was often inclined to insist otherwise), and he understood that eventide was when Peter Parker packed in for the night, and Spider-Man came out to patrol instead. He was simply a busy guy, and while Wade certainly wasn’t going to stop his sporadic text-barrages anytime soon, he could understand that replies weren’t exactly warranted for a majority of them. That’s why it really was a surprise when he felt his phone chime in one pocket, because he knew it could only really be one person (because literally nobody ever texted him). Then again, the word “no” was pretty easy to type… But it  _ wasn’t _ a no. Far from it, in fact. Hell, it wasn’t even a “oh, sorry, I’ve got something that day, and also this phone has been disconnected” type of dismissal. It was-  _ agreement _ ? Somehow? 

Well, alright, the guy  _ was _ sort of dirt poor, and even if he wasn’t- free food! Who didn’t like free food? God, Wade knew it was pretty pathetic, but free-food-guy sounded much, much better than “the one guy I pity so much that I let him screw around while he’s with me because he’s also a danger to himself and others around him so I’d also rather not have him lashing out like a gross rabid dog”. Like, at  _ least _ a 570% upgrade.

An upgrade that got him  _ very _ excited, so much so that he didn’t even bother waiting a few seconds like he had another, intelligent or productive thing to totally do, too. Not this time. Though, he did have to take a quick pause to survey how much cash he’d accumulated, and estimate the range of restaurants he could reliably afford. Nothing was more embarrassing than having to split a check you promised to shoulder- and trust him, that was pretty fucking embarrassing, because even  _ Wade _ understood, and where Wade’s sense of self-consciousness would normally reside was instead a gaping black hole that didn’t just obliterate everything at the center, but actually sucked the entire  _ concept _ of embarrassment out of Wade’s mind. Mostly. Oh, and he also had to mash his fingers against the buttons, because he refused to take off his gloves. He got it typed out eventually, okay? 

_ How does Scotty’s Diner sound? Nice place, I’ve only ever seen ONE rat there _

No, he had never been to Scotty’s Diner before.

Peter mulled it over. A diner? One of reasonable cleanliness, even. He was enough of a realist to know that a single rat wasn't exactly a harbinger of doom when it came to cheap eats in NYC. Hell, Doreen was always absolutely  _ flocked _ by squirrels, and they were basically just rats with fluffier tails and better PR.

Seeing as how he himself spent half his nights in seedy back alleys and warehouses, bruising his knuckles and picking up sundry cuts from god-knows-what, he really didn't feel the need to be particular. And of course, there was always the chance Wade was joking. After all, the kind of place that bothered to print out and distribute honest-to-goodness coupons probably budgets  _ something _ for upkeep. He hoped. A burger did sound good right about now. His stomach gurgled in anticipation and he closed his eyes, all but leaning into the vision of glistening melted cheese as it dripped over the crispy (not burnt) edges of a patty, topped with bacon, lettuce, and tomato. Even if the fries turned out to be too greasy, or the jukebox was stuck playing Tom Jones on loop, he wouldn't complain. It would still be the best meal he'd had in weeks. 

He did a quick search to map out the location, and realized he was only about fifteen minutes away. Well, less if he webbed there, but this sounded like a civilian invitation. That was, of course, assuming Wade meant to meet up tonight, and not later this week. God, he hoped not. Now that he'd imagined his dream burger, it was gonna be torture if he had to wait another day. 

_ Sounds great. Two to beam up? _

Wade found himself holding his phone two-handedly, like some dopey young schoolgirl awaiting a text from the boyfriend that will inevitably ghost her and break her heart, only to end up as a gas station attendant a decade later. Which was an  _ incredibly _ specific analogy, and almost left Wade concerned in the process- but then Peter had sent another message back and all his thoughts centered back around. The message itself took a moment or two to click, because while he was not so much of a  _ philistine _ as to not appreciate a good Trekkie reference every now and again, the reshaping to fit their situation sent his brain into a mediocre frenzy.

Another thing was that he hadn’t actually expected Peter to be so eager- especially not as much as to do it  _ right now _ . He damn well wasn’t complaining, obviously, but it didn’t help with the fried circuitry of his brainscape, either. All of these reasons culminated into Wade taking a disproportionately long time to respond, which is to say, about 20 or so seconds. 

He hoped he made up for it with enthusiasm, which was enunciated with an ever enthusiastic:  _ FUCK YES let me put my clothes on _ . 

Honestly, even when he wasn’t in the suit, it was still more like he was covering up to hide from Big Brother. A hoodie, a hat, sunglasses (at night, no less), baggy jeans and filthy work boots, and tattered leather gloves that held a knife or minigun or two  _ just _ in case.

_Clothes???_ _Omg you haven't been texting me in the nude this whole time have you, Wade?_

_ Wade??!! _

_ Oh geez, please at least have pants on when we meet... _

Peter was already growing warm from some kind of contact embarrassment, even though he'd had no confirmation at all regarding the state of Wade's undress. He wouldn't put it past the guy to think about texting him while in the buff, but then he could just as easily imagine Wade typing out a few choice words while dressed as a sugar plum fairy, so maybe it was just his own overactive imagination that was to blame. 

He spent a moment considering the state of his own attire. It wasn't anything fancy, just a rumpled blue t-shirt and jeans. An old reliable jacket because even radioactive super dudes could get a little chilly. Nothing that would make anyone look twice, or once, if he decided to err more on the side of self deprecating honesty. Still, it was probably more than good enough to meet Wade for a quick burger and fries. No reason to overthink things. 

When he did step out onto the sidewalk he was glad for the jacket. It was approaching what good, normal people would consider "late" and the wind was in full force, practically pushing Peter down the sidewalk as though it feared he'd be late. It ended up only taking 13 minutes for him to arrive, and there was no sign of Wade inside the diner, so Peter relegated himself to waiting under the streetlight. If he'd wound up at the wrong location, or Wade changed his mind, or hell, just straight up forgot because he was too busy tailing a family of martial arts practicing turtles into the sewers... Peter didn't want to end up on the hook for a meal he couldn't afford.

Wade was a fast walker.He was also used to running, because Deadpool was an anti-hero/chaotic neutral hybrid and had played for both teams (and every team in between) and was no stranger to making a hasty retreat when a mission went awry. 

It was much the same case for his speedwalking, but for that there were different reasons- pretty pathetic ones, might he add (somehow even more pathetic than having a Pavlovian inclination for cowardice). He was only  somewhat human, okay? People saw his face- his scars- less, when he speedwalked, and if he passed them fast enough he outright avoided the looks on their faces.

He already went through more disembowelments, amputations, and beheadings respectively than the human mind could even hope to comprehend, cut him some damn slack if he despises everything about his  _ literal _ crater-face. Point was, he walked fast, and only got stared at twice by the time he reached the diner. He was currently staying in an apartment further out from the inner city, though, so it took him a little longer than Peter. Which was another surprise all on its own; the fact that Peter had even come at all. 

He knew he  _ said _ so, and Peter Parker damn well wasn’t a liar, but...  _ still _ . A thought in the back of his head chided him with an all-too-jovial  _ Who passes up free food? There’s nothing else between you. _ He feels copper hit the back of his tongue, but he swallows the taste as he draws closer. All the while, there’s yet another bit of dread wrenching his gut, because he  _ knows _ Peter’s seen his face before, but his face changes every time it’s blown off- it takes more than a little getting used to.

Nevertheless, he lets absolutely none of this show (or at least he hopes he doesn’t) when greeting Peter. He gives an energetic smile, too bright for the evening, and saves a hand too high. 

“Petey! I didn’t make you wait too long to see this gorgeous mug, did I?”

Wade had to have some kind of battery pack (possibly nuclear powered) that powered him 24/7 to be so damn  _ perky _ even in the dead of night. He practically shouted his greeting at Peter, who ended up checking over his shoulders, an old habit born of too many stealth patrols gone wrong. Of course, they weren't in the clock, so to speak, weren't even in costume, and there was no reason for anyone to approach the two of them. Even the most foolhardy and reckless mugger would think twice before approaching Wade's towering bulk, and that was before considering the countless weapons Peter had no doubt were hidden somewhere on his person. 

_ "Don't switch the blade on the guy in shades, oh no..." _ He half sung to himself, returning Wade's gesture with a tired wave of his own. "Nah, just a few minutes. Got to scope out the place a little, breathe in that deep, greasy spoon air that only comes from having not cleaned the deep fryers in the last six months." He grinned, chucking a thumb over his shoulder to the door where it all but glowed, orange and inviting. 

“Didn't seem like the kind of place where you need a reservation, but I knew if I went in on my own, I’d end up eating three plates of onion rings without hesitation." He laughed, pulling open the door, eyes ticking up for half a second at the jaunty bell bolted to its corner as it announced their arrival. "When it comes to diner food, I require no small amount of supervision."

“You put it so  _ negatively _ ,” Wade whinged back, slumping his shoulders as he drew closer. He only came to a stop once he was at ample wrap-arm-around-shoulder-length, and when he was, he continued right on to finalize the gripe: “Greasy spoon air is the best kind of air. Given the ability, I’d pump it directly into my bloodstream and not-die a happy man.  _ But _ , I don’t have a syringe, so I’m gonna have to make do with  _ uncomfortable _ amounts of hyperventilation. Aren’t you glad I brought you along?” He said all his words incredibly fast, though not in deadpan, all while trotting after Peter with a sort of performative enthusiasm that would only be assumed natural for a guy like him. 

It wasn’t totally inaccurate, either; Wade really  _ did _ like spending time with Peter, whether it be while kicking the collective asses of a crime syndicate...  _ or _ going to a mostly well-rated diner within the inner circles of Manhattan, as case currently may be. It was merely that the token jump in his step  _ could _ get a little overbearing when it was being bogged by an enigmatically money-manifesting gullet, as well as the dozens upon dozens of unpacked, unacknowledged emotions about and for Peter that was apparently causing the whole mysterious side-hustle in the first place. Oh, and he was still a little annoyed that the bank wouldn’t swap solid gold coins for dollar bills, and he had to go to a gold buyer instead. But that was  _ fine _ , and he was  _ cool _ , and he was going to treat Peter to a damn nice meal,  _ and _ get used to being his own direct bank depositor even if it killed him. Which he knew it wouldn’t, because that was kind of his whole thing. 

“I have a ring you can eat-“ he piped up instantly, then wheeze-laughed loud enough to drown out any disgusted scoffs. Then his attention was caught on the bell, and he watched it chime like a toddler observing a butterfly while he continued on with his retorts. “I don’t think I’m the best supervision for, like, literally anything,”

"I don't know, you did pretty well on that stakeout two weeks ago," Peter hummed, deciding it was best not to react to Wade's crude humor until he had no choice. The night in question had been a long one, and true, Wade had complained plenty, even threatening to leave once or twice if things didn't get "interesting", but the promise of some action at the end of the night was enough to keep him around.

"Antici...pation..." Peter whispered, mostly to himself, remembering how Wade had launched into a one man Rocky Horror revival just to pass the time. As soon as he realized he'd uttered the word out loud though, he quickly shook the scene from his thoughts. "Um, I mean... I've been looking forward to this meal," he tried to cover quickly. There was probably nothing wrong with him thinking back to their shared evenings fighting crime, but reexamining the memory gave him a strange sort of feeling he couldn't put a word to. It was probably best not to think too hard about it. Wade might get weird if he realized Peter spent any time at all looking back on "the good times". 

"So," he chirped as they slid into the squeaking plastic booth, hoping to reboot the conversation. "What exactly is your coupon good for? I kinda had my heart set on a cheeseburger, but if it's like, buy-one-get-one for meatloaf or something, I'm not exactly complaining."

Wade could recall the stakeout in a surprising amount of detail- an abnormality, considering how absolutely dirt poor his memory  _ usually _ was. It came with the job, and just because his brain healed every time it got blown out  _ didn’t _ mean his memories always managed to recuperate. Hell, even when his head stayed intact, he was still innately scatterbrained, and had a frustrating habit of forgetting Herculean amounts of info at the end of every week, both unimportant and not. Really, the only thing that  _ was _ ever spared were the core essentials (traumas, past loves, name and interests and profuse love for Mexican cuisine) and a few other select remembrances... but apparently even the smaller, less doomsday-esque outings made with Peter fell under that stingy umbrella. Even ones where he spent 90% of the time carping. And of course, when Peter brought up the stakeout- meaning he remembered it, too, and he thought he did  _ well _ \- it was enough to make Wade’s heart  _ ping _ with elation. One of the voices chimed about how utterly, inconsolably whipped he was. Another merely chirped out a blithe  _ you’re shaking with it! _ as soon as it picked up on Peter’s absentminded whisper. Wade shook them both off, and sent Peter what he hoped was a pleasant smile (or as pleasant as his smiles even  _ could _ get, anyway). 

“I’m looking forward to it, too,” he assured, slumping into his seat and giving a few cursory glances to the waitstaff. “As for the coupon, it’s a- uh, well- I cashed it in yesterday, actually. So you can just go ahead and get whatever you want.” He hoped that sounded convincing enough, despite being at  _ least _ 80% sure “cashing in” coupons for money wasn’t a thing that existed.

Peter was already flipping the diner menu over in his hands, but at Wade's admission he deflated a little. He didn't want to make a big deal out of it; he knew Wade had issues with memory loss, especially when it came to mundane details, and spending a coupon or a gift card and not remembering it was about as mundane as it got for a mutant mercenary. Or, mutant less-merc-work-than-usual, if Wade was being honest about his new leaf. The sharp decline in his "unaliving" contracts probably had a lot to do with why he was bothering with things like discount dining in the first place. 

"Oh..." Peter's eyes started darting across the plastic page as he tried to figure out what he could buy with the six crumpled dollar bills in his wallet. A grilled cheese maybe? With some soup? That should still leave a dollar for tip. God, but he'd really wanted those onion rings. "Well, it's nice to get invited out of the apartment, anyway. You can only read the back of a cereal box so many times before you start craving a little more engagement over dinner." 

Wade tilted his head, trying to process what Peter meant; it was like he was trying to budget, like he was paying for himself- and  _ oh _ , Peter thought he’d spent the money already. That made sense- who cashed coupons (if such a thing even existed) a day before they used them? It was a waste of time, counterproductive, and it  _ would’ve _ probably been easier to just go with the flow... but unfortunately, Wade was not a very  _ flowy _ guy, and he quickly diverged paths in order to make sure Peter wasn’t emptying his wallet for a d— ...An  _ outing _ that Wade himself had invited the guy to. 

“I still have the money,” he insisted quickly, reaching into his hoodie’s pocket to hold out a wad of bills: clumped and disorganized, but otherwise pristine. “I just- had free time. So I cashed it in. But then I had to go, so I didn’t use it. And now I’m using it. So you can get whatever you want, it’s on me.” 

His elaboration was stupid, he knew it was stupid, but he hoped it was just innocuous enough as to prevent further investigation. 

He glanced up at Wade, to give him a quick nod, and realized the man was still wearing his cap and sunglasses. It was late enough that there were only a handful of diners in the place, most of them too tired or too focused on their own meal to pay the two of them much mind. Even their waitress had barely given them a glance as she dropped two glasses of water on the table. 

"You, uh... you gonna keep those on all night?" He ran a fingertip down the side of his own temple, tracing the shape of Wade's frames.

As quickly as he could, Wade jumped on the next topic, thankfully provided by Peter himself. “Would you prefer dead, white-out zombie eyes staring at you instead?” He snorted back as lightly as he could. “Wearing sunglasses at night is cool, anyway. I’m like Neo’s deformed long-lost brother.”

Something pulled uncomfortably in Peter's chest, like a series of strings had been wrapped around his ribs, only to be plucked sharply when he failed to navigate his way through the tricky conversation. It was easy to forget, even for him, that despite his bravado, Wade had plenty of barely concealed insecurities. Even after working together as long as they had, Peter had a hard time knowing what was okay to bring up, when it was alright to try and make a point. Even if he had Wade's best interests at heart, sometimes even calling attention to the issue could be enough to send the other man packing. 

"I was just asking," he shrugged. "They don't bother me. The glasses or your eyes. I mean, I'm used to staring at your mask anyway, and that's basically the same. Except I guess then, I have the benefit of seeing your eyebrows raise when you realize, yes I  _ did _ see that one episode of 'Night Court' you've been going on about for the last twenty minutes." 

He laid his hands flat on the menu, trying not to let his gaze linger on the literal  _ stack _ of cash Wade had thrown down. It was enough to cover their meal, for sure. Hell, from a quick glance, it looked like enough to take care of Peter's groceries for the rest of the  _ month. _ Whatever Wade was doing on the side to make extra cash, it was clearly working for him. Peter was almost tempted to ask for a job referral himself, but he'd made up his mind a long time ago not to use Spider-Man for financial gain. 

"Anyways, if you wanna play like you're in the Matrix, that's fine too. No reason to make yourself uncomfortable just to grab a bite to eat." He hummed, nodding as his eyes landed on a photo of an extremely juicy and calorie laden cheeseburger. "Just as long as I'm not stuck eating Tasty Wheat."

“Night Court is an underground show these days, and my rambles are an untapped wealth of ingenuity and golden humor.” Wade countered, his grin growing teeth as he waved a hand in Peter’s general direction. He spoke a lot with his hands- actually, he spoke a lot with his  _ everything _ , like the works of a supremely fucked-up animator high on at least 10 types of drugs. He was used to it being overbearing- intimidating, even, for those who were unlucky enough to catch glimpses at his face- but Peter never seemed to shy away from it. It was... pretty nice, truth be told, and probably one of the many, many,  _ many _ reasons why he was struck with this stupid unrequited-love compensation check. Though, at the end of the day, he really couldn’t say that the idea of showering Peter with financial stability  _ didn’t _ lessen the pain, because it totally did. He knew it wouldn’t get him anywhere, not in a million years, but Peter damn well deserved it. 

“No Tasty Wheat for you tonight- which is an oxymoron, because that shit just tastes like wood chips.” Wade declared, nodding his head just as the waitress returned- which is where he did something just a  _ little _ stupid. Maybe not economically, because he could probably buy half this place’s stock if he ballparked the cash now tucked back into his pocket; but overwhelming Peter. 

“We’ll have three onion rings to start,” he requested with no trace of sarcasm. “Ooh, with ranch. I like ranch on the rings. Only some of them, though, so don’t bring too much, unless you have too much already.”

Peter's eyes widened just a little at the order, but he quickly got his surprise under control. There was no doubt in his mind that Wade could finish off three full platters of deep fried treats on his own, hell, he'd seen the man close down a gyro truck by ordering "that whole meat tornado you got back there" before spending the rest of the night walking around, taking huge greasy bites from what had to be the world's third largest kabob. From the sounds of it, Peter would probably be able to score a couple of rings to keep his burger company. 

"Going for a high score there, Sonic?" He laughed a little; it was too easy to imagine a tiny, pixelated Deadpool zipping over the skyline at top speed. "Wait, does that make me Tails? Did I just make myself the  _ sidekick?" _ He huffed in dismay for half a second before realizing he was supposed to be placing an order himself. 

"Um, yeah, double cheeseburger? With bacon and extra pickles?" His eyes flickered to the bend of Wade's knuckles, but he didn't let them linger. God, he wished he could see where he was looking. "And fries. And uh... strawberry milkshake?" The right side of his face twinged a little when he realized he'd phrased it as a question. He really didn't need the dessert, but once he'd seen it on the menu it was hard to pass it up.

Wade flashed Peter an encouraging smile at the tail-end of his order, then let it falter a bit when he turned to face the waitress (as he didn’t want to scare her and have her spit in his food or anything, he knew his smirk could seem just a  _ little _ bit maniacal). 

“I’ll have what he’s having. Oh, but no pickles. For the main entree, that is- the onion rings are appetizers.” 

He really had no qualms about sounding like a glut, because honestly, he kind of  _ was _ one, not to mention he was already ugly enough to scare away any right-minded suitor. Oh, and it wasn’t like the grease was going to give him acne- he didn’t have room on his body for them. The majority of his shame had died years ago- or at the very least- had been swallowed and entirely encompassed by other, more  _ prominent _ features. Plus, it was for Peter. If there  _ was _ something he was normally too ashamed to do, adding Peter to the fray was more than enough of a reason. The waiter seemed content with the order- more of a tip for her, after all- and clipped away after making sure they’d finished. Once she’d gone off, Wade was instantly back to Peter, full-blown grin back in full-blown action. 

“High score’s not for me, but your tail  _ does _ defy the laws of gravity.” He trilled thoughtfully, once again laughing at his endlessly ‘clever’ ass jokes. “But seriously- you said you wanted onion rings, right? You get onion rings.”

"Oh, right. Thanks for-" Peter blinked, before busying himself with tucking the menu back in its resting place behind the napkins and ketchup. It felt strange to say 'for remembering' because Peter had only mentioned his craving a few moments ago. And thanking Wade for 'noticing' would belie the man's skill for observation, which plenty of people did, usually to their own disservice. Even most of the Avengers had Deadpool pegged wrong, (a sentence Peter would never say aloud, or he'd never hear the end of it), thinking he was little more than a gun toting buffoon, not realizing the level of skill he'd built up over the years. Peter might have the upper hand when it came to science and tinkering with technology, but Wade could plan out a stealth operation in his sleep. Mostly so he could cheerfully ignore said plan when the time came.

"...Just... thanks." He finished at last. 

He let his eyes wander around the diner to try and dispel some of the awkwardness fizzing in his gut. It wasn't anything special. The decor was a little dated, but in that way that made people feel comfortable, even if they'd never stepped foot in the restaurant before. There  _ was _ a jukebox, but it laid dormant, as some top-40 hits Peter hadn't had the time to catch up on hummed softly from somewhere unseen. 

"This is a cute place. Cozy. Reminds me of the kind of place my aunt and uncle would take me for special weekends out. Or if I brought home a good report card, I won the science fair. That kind of thing. My uncle would always order a big slice of pie at the end for us to share.  _ A la mode..." _

Wade’s voices (there were too many to name, and while some were much more prominent than others, all of them had a say) were all too eager to fill in the blanks themselves. Clamoring relentlessly and intangibly leaping over one another, they happily chimed in with  _ ’thank you for not being as much of a jackass as you normally are!’ _ s or  _ ’thank you for not harassing our waiter like a huge prick!’ _ s, among other assorted jeers. It was just distracting enough that Wade had to pinch his thigh in order to keep totally focused. He was grateful he did, though, he liked it when Peter talked about when he was young. 

“It is pretty cozy,” he admitted, scratching his chin as he surveyed the atmosphere. 

“So’s pie. Except lemon or key-lime any of that citrusy shit, no thank you- but everything else is okay. Especially with ice cream. Once I went through a phase where I’d put ice cream on everything, were you there for that? You probably weren’t there for that, it was still in the ‘holy €#%$, nothing can kill me’ timeframe. Anyway, I just kept putting ice cream on absolutely awful, completely non-compatible shit, until one day I tried it with Mexican food. Just as I make it halfway, a little, itty-bitty old lady comes up to me and my disgusting ice-cream chimichanga and she just starts tearing me to  _ shreds _ . Like, I was wearing my mask and everything, the waitresses were scared, but this brilliant, beautiful crone could not give less of a shit, and ripped me a new one right there on the spot. I thought I was hallucinating until she smacked the thing out of my hands, and I was barely registering half the things she was telling me, but in my heart, I knew right then that she was right, and I needed to stop. I don’t know when that lady quieted down, but when I woke up, I was half-naked in an alleyway with an unviolated burrito.”

Peter's lips parted as he struggled to voice some kind of reply, but the mental image of Deadpool having his wrist slapped by an irate abuelita was taking all of his mental power to compute. He knew seasoned New Yorkers were  _ fearless _ in a way that only living in this crazy city could make a person, but the image Wade conjured was just about as wild as his aunt scolding Doc Ock for tracking mud into the living room. Well, okay, maybe not  _ his _ aunt. Somebody else's aunt. One who hadn't lived through quite as much superhero drama as dear, sweet May. 

"Somehow I'm both shocked and utterly unsurprised," he said at last. "You've always had a soft spot for little old ladies. I mean, you were pretty cozy with Al for a while there, and she was little and old... although I'm not sure if  _ lady _ really applies..." He snorted a little, but straightened up in anticipation as he saw their waitress approaching, tray burdened with an absolutely obscene quantity of golden fried onion rings in her arms. 

"Honestly, I'm surprised you haven't found yourself a Betty White type to shack up with. Enjoying bingo nights and having her friends over for pinochle and chicken casserole." He paused, thinking for a moment. "Actually, that sounds pretty good. Save me a plate."

Wade shrugged in lieu of actually protesting Peter’s commentary, because he didn’t really have any legitimate ammo to fire back with (other than the fact that Al wasn’t exactly cozy in the first few weeks of their ‘relationship’, but he  _ really _ didn’t like thinking about that time in his life). Instead, he focused on the sudden arrival of a completely offensive number of calories. Not that Wade was intimidated, given his track record, but he  _ did _ hope that the gesture wasn’t too painfully grandiose. He knew waving around money like it was nothing was incredibly easy to misconstrue, and oftentimes deserved misconstruing- but for the first time in a long, long while, Wade genuinely just wanted to treat another person  _ nicely _ . A person who gravely fucking deserved it, might he add, and did  _ not _ deserve to know where it came from, because he’d probably be concerned and upset and disgusted, because of course the greedy jackass thought buying Peter shit would gain his tolerance, his friendship, his— 

“You won’t even want to  _ think _ about pinochle or chicken casserole after eating this beautiful, diabetic nightmare,” he purred, before reaching out and stealing a golden ring.

"Hey, onions are a vegetable!" Peter countered, grabbing one for himself. If he'd been eating with May or MJ or Harry, he'd have waited for a more formal invitation to dig in (and maybe dance around how much he wanted to help himself with the socially acceptable amount of refusal), but formalities weren't really Wade's  _ thing. _ For once, Peter was grateful. He didn't bother with ranch or even ketchup, not for the first, greasy, glistening bite. The batter was, well, not  _ light, _ but very crispy, well seasoned, and screaming hot right out of the fryer. In a word, perfect. Without thinking, Peter's eyes slipped closed, and an  _ extremely _ satisfied moan rumbled in the back of his throat as he chewed and swallowed. 

"Oh my god," he bit back any more unsavory noises, realizing just how loud he'd been, but struggling to hide his enjoyment. "You know how sometimes, you really want a thing? And then all you can think about is getting that thing, but when you get it, it's not as good as you thought it would be and you're left disappointed and kinda bummed out?" He plucked another onion ring from the plate, teeth crunching through the snack with every sign of satisfaction. 

_ "This is not one of those times." _

Wade was just about to thoroughly dismiss the chance that these  _ particula _ r onions had managed to maintain any nutritional value, but the smarmy grin on his face tightened as soon as Peter let out an honest-to-god moan. Now, he knew damn fucking well the noise was because of this gloriously unhealthy appetizer, but he was  _ also _ only a man. 

Okay, he wasn’t really “only” a man, but his instincts were roughly the same! Enough to make his face go shamefully warm. At least the flush wasn’t actually visible. The scarring prevented blood-flow to the surface of his face, yadda yadda, memo registered and understood; he was still  _ flustered _ . He had to pinch himself twice to bring himself back down to Earth, and then three  _ more _ times just to ignore the asinine ramblings having an absolute  _ field day _ in his head. 

Thankfully, his freakazoid money-illness was only triggered via Peter’s departure ( and the resulting self deprecation, disbelief and disgust that followed ), so getting thwacked over the head with the ol’ hot-and-bothersome did  _ not _ send him spitting up GoFundMe proceeds all over the tabletop. When Peter spoke again, he clung to the words like a vice, desperate to move on from the idiocy that was his brain, drawing strings and connecting sin to a man who simply wanted to eat his fucking onion rings. 

“To be fair- and no offense- you really aren’t the kind of guy to treat yourself much. It might just be so good ‘cause you haven’t had ‘em a bajillion years. I mean, they’re fantastic for me, but I think everything tastes good, so I’m as good a judge as that mouthless fucker in the one movie.” He paused to chew, swallow, and then narrowly refrain from stealing another one. They were Peter’s rings, dammit, he could at least let him enjoy them.

By this point, half of the first platter of rings had already been destroyed by Peter's voracious appetite, but he paused mid-impression-of-a-black-hole to tilt his head and study Wade. They were both pretty voracious eaters, super metabolisms would do that to a guy, and from what Peter had observed, Wade just  _ enjoyed _ the physical act of eating. Sometimes it was to get a taste of the forbidden or unknown (like those ice cream burritos he'd been going on about), but Peter wagered it was just as much for the sheer joy of it. Whatever the reason, Wade Wilson was not a "one onion ring at a time" kind of guy, and watching himself hold back was starting to get unnerving. 

"You're not going to make me eat all of these on my own, are you?" He questioned, even as he dunked a particularly chunky ring in some dressing. "I mean, I  _ could, _ sure, but I think by the second plate I'd stop enjoying it, and by the time I had the rest of my dinner I'd be so stuffed they'd have to wheel me out." 

He brushed his finger tips down the front of his shirt, vaguely tracing where the black lines of webbing usually lined his chest. 

"Gotta make sure I still fit in the suit, after all. I start showing a gut, and I  _ know _ Jameson is gonna blast that picture all over the front page. Probably with a headline like,  _ 'Webhead's Suit Stretched As Thin As City's Patience With Voracious Vigilante!' _ " He snorted.

Wade watched Peter with what he hoped had looked like contentment... but on second thought, probably just came off like a straight dead stare while wearing his sunglasses. Then  _ again _ , it might be equally as dead without them, because nonexistent pupils weren’t adept at emotive communication; maybe it was a useless task either way, trying not to be creepy. Just another reason why he thought he’d never do this for anyone else, or at least anyone he wanted to remember- but he didn’t completely hate it. Sure, it was a  _ little _ annoying having to stare at food and not be able to actually consume it- god knows he loved that an absurd amount- but it was worth it, if it meant Peter had a good meal on his plate without funds to worry about. And it seemed Peter was pretty content with the arrangement, too, happily and wordlessly munching on the fried treat—

_ He’s talking, dipshit! _

No need for a pinch this time, but he had to scrabble in order to pay attention. Then again, he had to summon a response that wouldn’t sound  _ too _ dreadfully out-of-character, and make Wade seem like he was trying to set him in a murder trap. Which was actually pretty difficult, because a lot of the stuff Wade actually said  _ was _ setting up for (potentially) murderous expenditures. He hoped the struggle didn’t show on his face, but even he could tell he took too long before conjuring a response. 

“Ah, you know, haven’t got as good a metabolism as you. Don’t wanna pack on pounds just ‘cause I’m not making blood money.” He dismissed, waving a hand, but snatching one more largish onion ring in an attempt to quell any concern.

"Three days ago I watched you order and eat an entire party sub," Peter said flatly. "And I know it was  _ dripping _ with mayo and dressing because some of it landed on my boot." He huffed out a single laugh, shaking his head. He had no idea what Wade was playing at with this sudden modesty act, but it really wasn't like him at all. 

"Come on, I'm gonna feel weird if I'm just sitting here stuffing my face while you stare at me. Or in my general direction, anyway." He glanced around the restaurant for a moment, surveying the other patrons. There was a chance Wade was checking out the cute server who was helping out a table opposite them, or maybe he was just taking in all the nostalgic advertisements and tchotchkes lining the walls. It was impossible to tell as long as he had on those glasses of his.

"Feel bad enough you're treating me without that discount of yours, since you aren't making that bl-" he stopped himself short. Just because Wade was cavalier about it didn't give him the right to be. "Since you stopped taking hit jobs. I know that's a big deal for you."

Wade felt the smile slip off his face for a moment or two, allocating as little of himself as possible to focus on not burning his tongue (while still not burning his tongue). He knew he had a bad track record with acting, but Jesus, Peter clocked him so fast it was almost a little intimidating. The fear of being known, or whatever other pretentious phobia he could fit into the situation. He felt his resolve collapse just as quickly as it had been concocted, and he munched down a belated third onion ring like the acceptance of defeat.

“S’not  _ that _ big a deal. I mean, it is, but not...” he tapered off, and hastily shoved a french fry angrily into his mouth instead of... actually finishing the sentiment. Incredibly awkward, but for some reason, he felt that saying  _ in comparison to someone as good as you _ was simultaneously a guilt trip, a suck-up, and a bullshit dismissal overall. 

Instead, when he swallowed (hard and panicked to not draw out the silence too painfully), he ended his statement with a cluttered, “The glasses make the onion rings hard to see.” 

With that, and as if to swiftly end the conversation, he removed aforementioned sunglasses- revealing his eyes to now be locked on the table. Well, as much as they could look to be. It was... still a little hard to tell.

However Wade originally meant to finish his thought, Peter had no way of guessing, but he was glad to see the sunglasses had finally proved more trouble than they were worth. It  _ had _ been a little unsettling, the first time he saw Wade's face completely uncovered, but he'd grown used to it. In fact, the milky white blankness of his eyes almost seemed to soften his gaze in a way that did nothing to hide the expressiveness and intensity of his emotions. Not that Peter had ever said this out loud. It seemed too personal, and Wade was, despite all insistence to the contrary, pretty sensitive about his appearance. Which is why he couldn't help but feel that same string plucking in his chest when Wade finally uncovered his face, even if he wasn't looking right at Peter. He'd gladly take the offering for what it was, and do his best to make sure they could enjoy their meal, just as they had so many others. 

"Hey, Wade," he mumbled, tapping his boot with the side of his well-worn sneaker beneath the table. "Who am I?" He held up a large onion ring over his chest with one hand, using the other to stick his straw wrapper in the crook of his pursed lips and his nose. "Money, money, money. There's no problem on earth that can't be solved by more robots!"

Wade only lifted his eyes when Peter spoke again, crunching halfheartedly on his onion ring like he  _ hadn’t _ managed to fall for the most philanthropic, altruistic, generous superhero he’d ever met, all while being a burnout assassin who excelled solely at murdering people. Oh, with a face that looked like it had been put through a meat grinder and then unenthusiastically reshaped once again. The sheer implausibility of ever being more than Peter’s pity-project, his obligatory side-job fixer-upper whom he likely only tolerated as to avoid more potential bloodshed... 

...Wade couldn’t really blame him, of course, but it still stung.

It stung a little less when Peter brought an onion ring to his chest, faked a mustache, and— 

“It’s Tin Can!” Wade cackled, grinning from ear to ear, blank eyes crinkling with joy. “Wait, wait- let me do one-“ He covered one eye, with a spoon and x’ed out an onion ring over his chest. “Wade, if you try to time travel back to the 13th century and show porn to people in the streets I’m going to take your spine and choke you with it,”

Peter paused for a moment, he wasn't  _ terribly _ familiar with the mutant, but as soon as Wade started talking, it was all too obvious. 

"That's your friend Cable," he answered. He didn't know all the details of their partnership, it seemed as unlikely a duo as anything. Cable had a reputation for being, well, even Captain America would call him straight laced. How he managed to deal with Wade's more  _ spontaneous _ nature was anyone's guess, though Peter had to concede he'd gotten used to it eventually. Of course, plenty of people leveled the same criticisms at Spider-Man that they did at Deadpool, so maybe he wasn't a prime example of stoicism. 

“We’re more like jilted ex-lovers, but you get the gist,” Wade agreed with a smirk, thinking back fondly on Priscilla and his Viagra, always brooding in silence with a dark, senile need to tap Wade’s irradiated ass until his dick got cancer. Maybe that was pushing it a little, but their relationship was  _ something _ like that. Cable was definitely elderly, that was a given, so he was already about 60% correct; besides, he’d remind him soon enough- Cable left for long, but never for good. He wondered briefly how him and Peter would clash, and then decided  _ not _ to wonder, because Peter was talking again. Once more, that snide smile formed on his face, now whilst chowing down happily on onion rings as per the norm. 

"Wait, is that something he actually said to you? Were you accosting peasants with Playboy spreads? Am I about to find out that you spent a summer working as Hieronymous Bosch's muse?"

“I won’t name any names, but if you ever see a Duccio painting with a guy that looks like bleached mulch, you’ll know why.” Wade winked.

"I suddenly regret not paying more attention in my high school art history class," Peter admitted, eyes wide open as he searched Wade's face for a shred of evidence that he was pulling his leg. "I guess I can kind of imagine it though..."

It was surprisingly easy, to be honest. Wade could be skittish about showing his face, but he had almost no qualms about dropping his trousers, and the mental image of him draped in a toga and posing with a bowl of fruit was shockingly easy to conjure. It didn't hurt that the man was absolutely  _ built. _ Despite his earlier grousings about needing to keep in shape, the obscene number of calories Wade consumed on a daily basis seemed to have no bearing at all on his figure. 

Wade had never mentioned it outright, but there definitely seemed to be a correlation between his increased appetite and the amount of regeneration he had to do. On a normal day he might eat what you'd expect for a large and healthy male, but after regrowing a limb or recovering from some hefty puncture wounds, he'd be more in the "multiple pizzas" realm. The day after recovering from a death? He could clear everything out of the fridge with no problem. Well, not Peter's fridge, which typically housed little more than some cold cuts and milk getting dangerously close to expiration, but somebody's better, cleaner, well stocked fridge. Guy Fieri, maybe.

“Why try to imagine? You’ve got the real deal in all its glory right here,” Wade chirruped back, gesturing to himself as if he were a particularly sadistic statue in a museum, or maybe some monstrous sculpture in a tourist trap. Either way, it was less of a Michelangelo’s  _ David _ gesture, and more of a  _ Saturn Devouring His Son _ . 

Nevertheless, he seemed content with his own self-deprecation, and munched on another onion ring while a waitress brought out the rest of their food- totaling the calorie count to ‘would probably send someone into catatonia if they weren’t equipped with superpowers’ levels. Wade seemed absolutely delighted with the prospect, because he’d gotten himself disemboweled not too long ago,  _ and _ he didn’t have to kill anyone to cover the costs of his aftermath consumption. The waitress didn’t even bat an eye at Wade’s dead eyes when he thanked her; something which he was immensely grateful for. 

"The closest I ever came to something like that," Peter rambled all of a sudden, returning to the topic like he hadn't just left it unattended for several seconds like some kind of conversational latchkey kid, "was being the subject of my own photos for the Bugle. But, uh, that was less 'contribute to the world of fine art' and more 'pay the bills so I didn't get kicked out of my apartment'." He grinned with a shrug.

“God, I  _ still _ can’t believe you did that.” Wade snorted, grinning through a mouthful of burger. “You’ve got a lot of features worth sculpting and getting put in the Louvre, I’ll tell you that much. I’m not surprised Jameson wanted them so bad.”

"Ha!" The single bark of laughter was loud enough to make some of the other diners turn their heads, but as Peter busied himself with dumping ketchup onto his plate, they quickly returned to ignoring him. 

He didn't know how to explain to Wade his own particular brand of insecurity, borne out of growing up thinking of himself as little more than the overlooked bookworm in his class. And yeah, sure, he was decent looking these days, was obviously toned from all his superhero work and even had  _ abs _ but it was still hard to see that when he looked in the mirror. It wasn't like he turned heads walking down the street, hell, the only reason people in the diner were paying him any mind was because he and Wade were getting a little rowdy. 

"I'm pretty sure Jameson just wanted pictures so he could come up with 101 reasons why Spider-Man meant the end for common, decent, New York citizens everywhere. Whatever that means. It would be pretty hilarious though, if it turned out he had a room full of glossy prints up on the wall just for his own enjoyment." He said at last, finally reassembling his burger and taking a bite, with every sign of enjoyment. 

"Although knowing him, it would be less for aesthetics and more for him to pin up on his dart board. Besides, MJ was the one who could stop traffic with a smile. I mean, makes sense why she's the one working as a model-slash-actress these days." It had been a while since they'd been in contact, but even Peter didn't live so far under a rock that he didn't catch word of her once in a while. She was doing well, as far as he could tell, much better off than she had been when she had to deal with the stress of being chained to a superpowered boyfriend, anyway.

Even Wade jerked a bit upon hearing Peter’s laugh, eyes going wide with surprise. He quickly relaxed upon realizing it was merely a laugh- a loud, short laugh, but a laugh nonetheless; apparently dismissing the fact that he looked like he could be a male model in a heartbeat. Which simultaneously made Wade want to pat Peter reassuringly, because he knew what it was like to think of yourself as ugly, and/or throttle the guy, because whereas Wade was actually  _ legitimately ugly _ , Peter looked like he spent a majority of his time and energy saving people from imminent death, all to no financial gain of his own. 

Oh, wait, that’s right, Peter  _ did _ do that. Wade just couldn’t wrap his mind around the idea of having a body like that, and still managing to be self conscious. Which he knew was awful of him- everyone had their doubts and anxieties and whatnot, but... seriously. The guy had a face like a demigod, and only  _ sometimes _ made faces that looked like he nibbled chalk as a kid. Wade looked like he took chalk and injected it directly into his aorta, and also the chalk was made of polonium. The difference was palpable. 

“That Jameson guy totally wants to hatefuck Spider-Man,” Wade mused confidently, wagging a finger as he munched on his food (still snagging onion rings every now and again). “You can hate someone and still have the good sense to say, ‘Hey, that guy’s got an ass better than Justin Trudeau,  _ and _ it’s in spandex’.”

Immediately, Peter was sputtering and gagging, a piece of fried potato threatening to lodge itself in his throat as he struggled to banish the image from his mind. Sure, Betty and Ned had made the occasional joke about Jameson's obsession with the wall-crawler, but the man's pure vitriol kept them from ever straying into the notion that he carried any kind of affection or  _ attraction _ for the hero even once. Wade, however, seemed to have no such qualms about voicing his thoughts on the matter. 

"Please... no..." Peter gasped, grabbing his glass of water and chugging down several gulps before coming back up for air. "Not even in my wildest nightmares..." He dropped his head into his hands, muffling an unhappy wail, before looking Wade in the eyes again. He crossed his arms with a faint disgruntled huff before returning to his plate, trying not to let the idea of Jameson getting amorous with  _ anyone _ ruin his appetite. 

"It would be just my luck it'd be a guy like JJJ that wanted a piece of the spider-action. Couldn't be someone legit hot like... I dunno, Captain America. Or Thor. Either of them." With a little laugh he returned to trailing his fries through an obscene amount of ketchup. "Well it doesn't matter. Not like I'm into the one-night-stand scene anyway," he decided, getting back to his food.

Wade smiled right back, completely shameless with his perturbing ideations and conclusions, as always. Part of it was just gratitude that Peter managed to handle the dislocated fry down the wrong pipe, because nothing ruined an  _ outing _ worse than having to do the Heimlich. Hell, it was  _ nearly _ as bad as pointing out how you thought your friend’s(?) deranged conspiracist boss probably wanted to boink their alter ego. Nearly. 

When Peter’s eyes met his, he was quick to look away, though it’s not like it made much of a difference for his own looks. Instead, it was more just to avoid the vulnerability. He knew he was head over heels in like-like with the guy, denying that much was useless- but at the same time, he was honestly a little terrified that if Peter looked too close, too long, he’d see it and he’d just  _ know _ . That wasn’t useless, that was... paranoid self-preservation. And considering he did not look like Thor or Captain America, he would continue keeping that shit preserved until it fermented and died. He took an uncomfortably large bite of his burger, and nodded his head along to Peter’s words. 

“I’m sure Thor and Cappy-Boy would both be very flattered, and the one-night-stand scene is very disappointed, but respects your wishes.”

"I didn't realize the One Night Stand Club had elected you as their spokesman," Peter shook his head, a faint smile playing at his lips. "But I appreciate the sentiment." 

He'd sort of always assumed Wade was some kind of serial monogamist, but maybe he was just projecting too much of his own tastes on the man. He knew Wade had been married more than once over the years, even if some of the relationships had been born from necessity or convenience, he never had any reason to believe that the man gave anything less than his all to them. It made some kind of sense though. If Wade carried even a fraction of the sexual drive he broadcast noisily across the city via jokes, innuendo, and wild hip gesticulations, then he'd have to seek satisfaction  _ somewhere. _ And Peter knew from experience than living that superhero life wasn't really conducive to a healthy dating life. The guy kept at least one burner phone on him at all times, why shouldn’t he have an extra one just for dating apps? 

“You kidding me? I’m pretty much the  _ king _ of red-light districts in this city. I bring blindfolds, I pay extra, I make sure to only ever leave the coquettes with short-term trauma from my irradiated dipstick, I beat up pimps... you couldn’t ask for a better customer.” Wade chimed back amiably, attempting to balance a fry on his pinky finger before popping it into his mouth. 

"So, uh..." Peter found himself fiddling with an errant strand of hair that seemed insistent on pestering his cheek and earlobe. "Guess that means there's really no chance of reconciliation with the missus? Or ex-missus... or... actually, you know what. It's so not my business, I shouldn't have said anything." His cheeks started to warm with embarrassment. Even if Wade had only married Shiklah to stop her from falling into Dracula's clutches, or whatever the hell the arrangement had been, he knew Wade had cared for her deeply, and their separation hadn't been easy.

Despite having discarded his sunglasses a few minutes prior, Wade seemed to ease back into it, content to banter and retort until his ex-wife came into play. God, the word  _ divorcee _ still gave him the willies, and he watched Peter wordlessly as he  scrambledscrabbled to salvage the situation. The coloring of his cheeks would almost be endearing, had it not been for the fact that his former  beautiful, feisty, beautifully violent succubus wife had dropped him like a sack of bricks, all to marry the guy he’d rescued her from. He’d had a while to get over it, really, and his whole unrequited money-puke-disease all but proved Shiklah was ancient history, but the Monster Metropolis annulment process was something that would never  _ quite _ leave his ever-growing collection of mental baggage.

“I don’t think I ever want to step foot underground again.” Wade noted glibly, picking out a sesame seed from the burger bun before taking another bite. “But no,  _ definitely _ no chance for round two.  _ Deadpool _ was just never wired for marriage. Oh, and I think I’ve had enough of the nail room, anyway.  _ Fuck _ that room.”

The features of Peter's face tightened a little at Wade's blunt admission. The guy was being kind enough about Peter's faux pas, but he knew he'd really stepped right into some nasty territory without meaning to. A hell of a way to repay his friend for the meal. Of course now he found himself a little torn. It would probably be easiest to pretend the topic had never come up, to let it fade away without note and hope that Wade would start chattering about whatever had been on late night TV this week, or whether or not Billy Mays was still secretly alive or just removing stains for the angels now, but Peter wasn't sure that was the right choice. 

Of course, being a masked hero came with certain occupational hazards, and not prying into other people's lives was a part of the deal, (lest they turn around and start prying into yours) but it wasn't like he really had anything to hide from Deadpool. And the way he talked about Shiklah, speaking so plainly about his distaste for what happened, even hinting at being forced into things he didn't care for... 

...maybe Wade just needed to vent? It wasn't like he really had much of an opportunity. 

Sure, Peter knew better than most that the guy could prattle on about any topic to anyone, or even the empty air if that was all that was available. But he also knew Wade typically stayed away from the "heavy" topics, and all the banter and chattering in the world wasn't the same as talking to someone who was really listening. 

"That, uh... that sounds rough, buddy." He offered, tracing the edge of his plate with one finger. "It's not easy, feeling like you might have found  _ the one _ and then having them realizing they didn't feel the same way."

Wade shrunk further into his seat as Peter observed him, feeling somehow like he was under investigation for validity. He knew it was a stupid thought process; Peter was kind and understanding to a near-sickening extent- the idea that he’d ever call him out on any specific idiocy or stupidity was next to nothing. Still, his love life certainly wasn’t something to be admired, and he would only blame Peter a  _ little _ bit if he decided to scold him. 

Of course, though, that’s not what happened. Peter was too nice for that. Instead, Peter was... encouraging him further? Which was nice, because he never got to talk about anything to anyone anymore (except Weasel, but his advice was fucking asinine, and he wasn’t the most empathetic guy either). He just never took Peter for a gossip, is all, because that’s the only thing Wade could imagine as a motivation... Even if he didn’t go spouting it to the Avengers, or whoever. But Wade was supremely weak-willed when it came to talking, and as soon as he was given the green light, he continued on and away. 

“It  _ is _ rough,” he decided, popping another fry into his mouth. “She had the best ass underground, and I’m pretty sure she used succubus monster-magic to make her boobs defy gravity. But she was allowed freebies with anyone she wanted, which sucked major dong, but whatever. Did I mention the nail room?  _ Fuck _ the nail room.”

There was a certain fondness in Wade's voice that Peter enjoyed. Even if their parting had been a bitter one, it was still nice to know he could find something to appreciate about his ex-wife. And sure, he himself still thought fondly about MJ, but their split was due to his own deficiencies, and nothing at all that she'd done. It wouldn't have felt  _ right _ to hold any ill will towards her. He didn't have to dig deep to know that was a pattern in his own relationships. They never worked out and it was always his fault. He'd like to blame it squarely on Spider-Man, but even that wasn't true, as Felicia had been only too happy to prove. 

But something else stuck in Peter's mind as he listened to Wade. It made him pause as he replayed a memory, one that was a little hazy around the edges, even if he knew he'd never forget the night entirely. 

"Freebies?" He echoed. He supposed it made sense. Married or not, Shiklah was the succubus Queen of the underworld. She wasn't exactly beholden to mankind's laws of propriety. "Is that... is that why you had that 'free pass' list?" 

He'd only caught a glimpse of it, enough to see the names of Lady Thor and Zombea Arthur scrawled in hellish calligraphy. He hadn't managed to read the full list, but assumed every name there was just as improbable and unlikely to exist as the last. Clearly, it wasn't something Wade ever thought he'd have the need or desire to cash in in earnest.

Wade held back a wince at the mention of  _ Deadpool Top 5 _ , that lovely little list restricting him to a quintet of candidates that would never actually qualify for the footnotes, and in the impossible situation that they did, would never actually agree. Meanwhile, Shiklah was a succubus who absolutely  _ thrived _ on sex, and restricting herself to monogamous fucking simply wasn’t going to happen. As much as Wade hated the prospect, she was always going to screw who she pleased when she pleased, and if Wade was on one of his ludicrous escapades, she would make do. It was one of the reasons their marriage fell apart- along with the whole her-leaving-him-for-Dracula-thing... that was a pretty big reason, too. 

Either way, she was done with him now, and he could get handies from as many willing sex workers as he wanted. Which still wasn’t a gigantic pool of candidates, but hey, better than nothing. 

“Eh, more or less.” Wade dismissed, distracting himself by trying to tie one of his fries into a knot. It wasn’t working. “She was a sex monster, I’m just a sex  _ obsessed _ monster. Big difference there, big difference in the freebie pool. Doesn’t really matter. Now, the whole  _ world _ is my list.”

It seemed like Wade was done with the pity party for now, so Peter decided it was best to take his cue from the man and move on to greener pastures. But hopefully, Wade understood that if he ever  _ was _ in the mood to get milkshake drunk and talk about his ex... or  _ exes, _ (wow he really did get around quite a bit, now that he thought about it) Peter would be willing to listen. 

"That, uh..." he floundered a little, but redoubled his efforts on finishing his burger to buy a little time. "That sounds pretty great, I guess. I mean, why not go for it, yeah?" He swiped away a smudge of ketchup from his lips with the heel of his palm, chewing thoughtfully. 

"I'm glad you're getting out there, one way or another." He didn't mean to sound so down, but a hint of melancholy found its way into his words anyway. "I guess... I mean, I know it's stupid," he admitted, "but there is some part of me that still hopes I'll figure it all out someday. Manage to settle down. For real." 

It was his turn to look away now, eyes skirting to the empty booths along the far wall, imagining his aunt and uncle taking him out for a meal. Wondering if he'd ever get to do the same thing with a family of his own. Realizing the chances were slim to none. 

"But maybe you're right. Maybe the normal, married life just isn't in the cards for people like us."

Wade knitted his fingers together, separating them every time he went to take the last few bites of his burger (surprised it had managed to last this long). He listened intently as Peter spoke, his demeanor growing progressively more solemn until there were no more call-girl thoughts in his expression, or even in his mind. Wade had never been good with talks like these- thoughtful, introspective ones that shed light on the shittier sides of superheroing- but with Peter, he at least felt inclined to listen and make an effort. Slowly, his eyes went to  _ juuust _ barely meet Peter’s, hoping the display of vulnerability would show he was hearing him. 

“I think you’ll find someone,” Wade answered, sounding completely honest- and in truth, he really  _ was _ .

“You just have to find someone who can handle all your spider powers, your heroic side. I’m not saying it’ll come soon, but... y’know. You’re young enough, you’ve got time, and you’ve got the greatest ass above  _ or _ below ground. You’ve still got a while left to go, and a while left to play out your wildest domesticity dreams.” He paused, a moment of clarity forcing him to realize how openly he was revealing his own desires, and quickly backtracked.

“But uh, hey, until then, you can hang out with your best pal Deadikins and let him spoil you rotten.”

Peter looked back at Wade, a genuine smile spreading across his face, even as the lateness of the hour was starting to creep into his bones. Even as goofy and crass as he was, Deadpool had a way of saying things that were somehow still very... heartfelt, although you'd be hard pressed to find anyone in the super community who would believe it. In between those moments of chaos and frenetic energy, Wade Wilson had a knack for genuine  _ sweetness _ that Peter had to admit he really appreciated on nights like these. 

He hadn't come out tonight looking for anything other than a free meal, and maybe they'd strayed a little further into "feelings territory" than he'd originally planned, but Peter had to admit he was having a great time. Wade was right, there was no reason to waste time being morose about what the future may or may not hold. He could enjoy the present for what it was, with one of his favorite people. That was more than enough. 

"Well, when you put it that way," he grinned, grasping one of Wade's hands as he picked up one of the last lingering onion rings, no longer piping hot, but still golden and mostly crispy. "Wade Wilson, will you be my late night burger buddy, in hunger and in thirst, through heartburn and indigestion, as long as we both shall have an appetite?"

Wade watched as Peter reached for his hand, incredulity and shock preventing him from actually maneuvering out of his reach. Instead, it fell against Peter’s open palm without argument or avoidance, and at the exact same time, Wade felt his face practically set itself on fire. For a brief second, he wondered to himself: why the fuck was he able to manage countless hundred-something-dollar handjobs and one night stands, but as soon as Peter Parker held his hand in an  _ actual mockery _ of romanticism, his face set itself ablaze, and every tumor-riddled muscle in his body went stiff like it was still reversing rigor mortis? 

He  _ knew _ the answer, sure, he’d even admitted it to himself, but  _ Christ on a stick _ did it ache in times like this. But he couldn’t let Peter know. 

Peter didn’t deserve that, didn’t deserve the disgust and the inevitable loss of a financially equipped acquaintance  _ because _ of that disgust. He didn’t deserve the stress of having someone like Wade pining after him, and Wade- no matter what his idiot monkey brain said- was  _ completely okay with this arrangement _ . 

He wouldn’t ruin that. He couldn’t take the  _ rejection _ if he ruined that. 

“I do,” Wade grinned, forcing his trachea violently closed to keep the words from being horribly awkward and tight. “By god, my sweet burger buddy, I do. And I also have to go to the bathroom, so you should probably slip that onion ring on nice and fast.”

Without another word, Peter slipped the onion ring onto Wade's waiting finger, the side of his mouth quirking up as he let go of the other man's hand. He waved magnanimously towards the dingy white door that led to the diner's restrooms as though they were grand glass doors leading to one of Tony Stark's most exclusive parties. 

"Wouldn't dream of keeping you," he laughed, returning to his meal so Wade could go about his business. It wouldn't be hard to clean his plate during the few minutes he was gone, and if the three platters between them were suddenly devoid of any of the remaining appetizers, well, Wade had had his chance. He set to it, heart light, stomach starting to feel full, and his chest finally free from that strange tug that had been plaguing him not long before.

Wade flashed Peter a sunny smile as he stood, pushing himself upward off the tacky fabric of the seat. He debated snatching one of Peter’s fries for extra effect, but at this point the nausea had become so intense that he was convinced he’d spew an all expenses trip to the Bahamas if he tried. 

Instead, he merely kept his smile, making his way calmly to the bathroom. As soon as the door shut behind him, he bolted for the nearest toilet, praying to whatever god who might listen that nobody else was there to see him spew his guts in the most economically fraudulent way imaginable. He keeled over the porcelain throne, but realized he didn’t want to waste good money, and so he quickly aimed for his hands instead. He retched grotesquely, spewing up undigested bills and coins with only minimal bloody residue. To be honest, he was really just grateful that it wasn’t coated in hamburger and fried onion puke. 

This time, it didn’t stop with just one wave, and he hacked up another few intensely painful clumps of cash and coin before it finally released its grip on his throat. Acid reflux took its place, which was considerably more bearable, but the rippling tides of the sickness bout’s aftermath still pulsed through him. All the while, he clutched his grody money, just enough that it would probably bust a seam in his pockets. 

He gave himself a minute to recuperate and let the dark flecks fade from his vision before he shoveled himself back onto wobbly knees and stumbled over to the sink, washing his money and his face in tandem, before drying them in much the same way with copious paper towels. It still felt like his throat was burning from the inside out by the time he’d successfully jammed all his money into his shitty jean pockets, and it didn’t get any better once he got back to the table. 

“You ready to ditch this popsicle stand?” Wade asked, searching the table for a check.

Peter pushed himself up from the table in an unsteady motion, sliding the check face down towards Wade's hand. He still bore a faint look of embarrassment, even though he knew Wade had invited him out, had repeatedly insisted that the meal was his treat, would no doubt raise an absolute fuss if Peter tried to throw down some cash, even if it was just for the tip. Although clearly their server had earned more than the paltry sum he had stuck in his pocket. 

"I thought popsicle stands were something you typically blow?" He pondered aloud, lips pursing in thought. It wasn't as though either version of the phrase made much sense in the first place. "But yeah, I'm all done here. Gonna be a neat trick, keeping my eyes open all the way home. A good meal like that always makes me a little drowsy." Probably the reason he was two missed naps away from being a proper insomniac. Well, that and his penchant for cruising the city at night, looking for bad guys to beat up.

“You gonna blow a popsicle for me, Parker?” Wade grinned back, slipping a few crisp 20’s into the flap of the bill before passing it back to the waitress, and pulling himself back up to his feet, trying desperately not to feel too much reverberating whiplash from such a simple act. He straightened himself upright, but still followed after Peter instead in lieu of leading, just in case he still looked kind of bowlegged. 

“Or would blowing a popsicle just be another way of eating it?” He voiced the thought as he followed Peter outside, mostly just to preoccupy his mind with something  _ other _ than the acrid pain echoing down his throat to various other intestines. 

The chill of the night air came as a relief, as did the sunglasses that he returned to his face, but neither managed to completely null the pain- nor the worry that he’d have to go through it all over again once Peter had left. A small, pathetic part of him craved to ask to follow Peter home, but he squashed the urge instantly upon noticing it. 

“Try not to get yourself mugged or anything,” Wade snickered, arching his back and stretching. And then, without thinking, spoke a casual “Same time next week?”

Two tiny puffs of air came from Peter's nose, a closed mouth laugh at the idea of Spider-man getting accosted by muggers on a Thursday night (or was it Friday morning at this point?). He nodded, giving Wade a smile as he shoved his hands deep into his pockets in an attempt to warm his fingers, now that the heat of the diner was starting to leech away. 

"We're burger buddies now, aren't we?" He asked, grin broadening, smile lit up by the flickering light of the neon sign advertising 'Hot Coffee 24/7' from the restaurant window. "Took an oath in front of God and Rhonda and that one rat that was certainly the only rodent in the joint."

He bumped against Wade's side with his shoulder, enjoying the brief warmth from the contact, even though he knew it would only make it harder to head back home alone. 

"Just uh, don't be a stranger, or whatever. You can call or text me about... stuff. Doesn't have to be to grab food either. I had a good time just shooting the shit, y'know?"

Wade felt his heart constrict in his chest, another tidal wave of sheer  _ want _ crashing over him like a concrete wall. He knew he couldn’t have this, knew he wasn’t  _ meant _ to have this, knew that Peter didn’t want  _ any _ of the mess that was going on in his head, but his heart couldn’t care less. He hated wanting it, despised it harder than he had with anything in a long, long time, because it was easier than being sad and afraid about it. 

When Peter’s shoulder nudged against him, the back of his throat turned into a vile solution of coppery-something and stomach acid, like bleach and mercury. He didn’t know whether to fall against the touch and just let himself (and his pH-fucked esophagus) deal with the consequences, or run away. In the end, he did neither, at a complete standstill as dead as his eyes.

“Absolutely, man,” he smiled back, bobbing his head in unhindered agreement whilst his Poison Control nightmare of a salivary gland threatened to corrode his goddamn teeth. “You can’t get rid of me now, anyway- you’re in it for the long haul. I’ll text you soon.”

The goofy grin Peter had sported softened into something a little more genuine. He knew Wade had zero qualms about texting him poop emojis and photos of particularly harried geese at the park, but maybe this was the start of something new for them. A little more honest conversation. 

It wasn't like he was looking to bear his soul on a nightly basis or anything, but just knowing there was someone else he could reach out to- someone who understood a lot of what he was going through, made Peter feel immeasurably better about his lot in life. If he was a slightly less responsible person, he might even suggest that they keep the party going. He didn't drink, but there were plenty of ways two guys could pass the time. Unfortunately, the thing he really needed to do right now was pass out, preferably in his own apartment and not in the middle of an alley somewhere in Queens. 

"I'll be looking forward to it," he said with a wave, turning at last to begin the trek home.

Wade waved back, feeling rough but with an undeniable underlay of happiness, because if he didn’t like Peter and enjoy spending time around him, he wouldn’t have gone and fallen in fucking love with the guy in the first place. It was just hidden underneath burning tonsils and fucked-up money curses that helped you finance the friendship between you and aforementioned megacrush. Every romance had its quirks, after all. 

He wondered if he was going to get any sleep whatsoever that night as he turned away from Peter, starting the long walk home with his stupid long legs and stupid dumb heart. As soon as Peter had out of sight, he came to the conclusion that no, he wouldn’t, because he was going to spend his entire night suffering from the aftershocks of this next outcrop of sickness. 

He barely made it to the alleyway before he was absolutely annihilating his poor throat with Scrooge McDuck’s biggest fucking wet dream. 

It started, it went, it refused to stop, and it hurt so bad…

...And he was going to treat Peter  _ so fucking well with all the money he was making _ .

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic I worked on with a co-writer who prefers to go uncredited, but I am very happy to be able to share it with you now. I think the hanahaki trope is a really interesting one to explore, especially when it comes to variations on the idea and what they might mean. Even though this storyline was inspired by a joke post I saw on Twitter, I think we managed to come up with an entertaining story, I hope you'll enjoy it!


End file.
